Fangs for the Memories by Molly Harper

at the blood bank and have him meet me here.”
    â€œWhat? Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “Why did you even come over?”
    â€œYou weren’t making any sense, and I knew you wouldn’t drink on a night you were doing a feeding. I was afraid something like this had happened.”
    â€œAnd you just happened to know a guy who had access to the rarest blood type in America?”
    â€œI might’ve had some set aside at the blood bank for you, just in case.”
    â€œYou had a backup plan just in case a client drained me?”
    Dick shrugged. “I have backup plans for the people and things that are important to me.”
    I didn’t know if it was the brush with exsanguination or the bashful, tender expression on Dick’s handsome face, but for some reason, my eyes welled up just a little bit. Dick Cheney cared about me enough to have contingency plans in place to protect me from myself. I’d always assigned selfish motivations to Dick’s schemes, but there could be nothing gained from arranging “backup blood” for me. Dick had done something utterly selfless—and most likely very expensive—for me.
    I cleared my raw throat around the lump gathering there. “Why didn’t you just turn me?”
    Dick absently checked the port in my left hand, stroking down the medical tape there. “We never talked about it. I didn’t want to make that decision for you. Everybody has the right to make that call for themselves, Red. I wouldn’t take that from you.”
    I pressed my lips together, tangling the fingers of my left hand together with his, even though it tweaked the port. “Thank you.”
    â€œHere,” he said, twisting so he could reach the high, narrow table I’d set up behind my sofa. He retrieved two large coffee-house-sized mugs. One smelled sort of herbal and yeasty, while the other contained a dark brown meat-scented liquid.
    â€œBeef consommé and barley tea. I know it sounds disgusting . . . because it is. But you need the iron. And the barley tea is supposed to help your hemoglobin levels.”
    Sniffing the barley tea delicately, I sipped at it and shuddered, but he tipped the cup against my mouth, making me take a much longer drink.
    â€œHow do you know how to start an IV?” I asked him, wiping my mouth. I winced when the medical tape pulled at my skin.
    â€œYou know, over the years, I’ve developed a lot of life skills. It hurts me that people don’t believe I have them.”
    I drained the cup because I figured it wouldn’t be so gross if I just took one long drink. I was wrong. It was still gross. “It’s just that those skills are so random, we don’t know what’s real and what’s hyperbole. You’re like Half-Moon Hollow’s Davy Crockett.”
    I pulled a face as I handed him the empty mug. He nodded toward the consommé, and when I didn’t immediately drink it, he lifted the broth to my lips himself. It was considerably tastier than the barley tea. He said, “I met Davy Crockett once. He was a tool. Wore that stupid cap long after the joke stopped being funny.”
    â€œDavy Crockett died at the Alamo, before you were even born.”
    Dick squinted at me. “He did, did he?”
    â€œDon’t do that. You can’t just claim a random historical figure is a vampire just because you think it’ll make your story plausible and somehow cooler.”
    â€œI believe I can. For my future reference, have you ever thought about whether you’d be turned?” he asked, his tone intentionally light and teasing.
    â€œI’ve waffled about this over the years, but I’m still undecided.”
    Dick snorted, brushing my tangled hair back from my face. “That’s very helpful.”
    I grinned at him. “I don’t want to die. I’m too young and beautiful and fabulous, obviously.”
    â€œOh,